We All Dress Like Our Fathers

“Bailiño scores 4 as Loyola crushes New Trier, 7-0”

That’s the kind of headline you dream about, as a dad, seeing in the Tribune, Sun-Times, or the Daily News someday. And that your kid, an extraordinary kid with world class talent, not only makes the paper but somehow adopts his own one word moniker worth of the likes of Péle, Shaq, or even “The Rock”.

It’s the kind of pollyanna thought that only men have about their kids, both inspiring and a bit silly. If taken too seriously, psychologists point out that pushing your kid too hard into sports (or anything, really) can be damaging.

Some parents are the kind that gets their pants in a bunch about the score of a pee wee game. Others bark and yell, or start rogue coaching their kids from the sidelines. Do this, and you don’t need a shrink to tell you that you’ll look like a loony.

My dad never pushed me into sports. Actually he never cared about sports. Except for Gardening, which is sort-of a sport, that is, if you consider The Iron Chef a sports competition.

Sports was something I picked up on my own, first as a spectator and then as an activity for social acceptance, growing up as a typically bored kid in the suburbs. Maybe it was the neat, colorful uniforms the players got to wear. Or, maybe joining sports was a way to get my folks to let me wear my sneakers to school even though it wasn’t gym class day.

Anyhow, sport has evolved into a lifelong passion that makes me feel like a kid (good) and also sometimes makes me act and dress like a kid (bad).

Certainly in America and Britain it is considered totally acceptable for Father and Son to support the same team and to underscore their support with matching sports garb. Some might say that’s what Saturdays and Sundays were made for. Some take it a step further, and dress up the dog too.

Likewise, as a near-insane fan of the beautiful game, I got my kid enrolled in “Lil Kickers” soccer as soon as he was age-eligible. With his enlistment he was put on a team –I think it was called the Cottontails-- and got his own uniform, with number 4 smack dab on the back.

Starting the curriculum at Lil Kickers, the kids learn how to take simple directions in a group and do an activity in sequence. They roll the ball, stack cones, knock down the cones, and eventually learn to kick, pass and score with some rudimentary skill.

More importantly, the kids are supposed to learn how to interact with each other, how to share, and to plot the first steps toward a lifelong pattern of good sportsmanship on the way to mature adulthood.

At this age, the age of toddler-hood, sharing remains a challenge and every parent is hit with a barrage of messages about how pivotal every new experience and every moment is for kiddo.

With this baggage ever present in mind, that we attended a friend’s barbeque one summer day; a ritual family gathering. It happened on a typical August Saturday; parents letting loose with a beer, some dogs and burgers in a fenced-in and relatively controlled suburban environment where the kids could play, semi-supervised.

As 3-year-olds sometimes do, my kid and others were playing with tricycles, soccer balls, footballs and big toys in the yard. Most got along pretty well while others had at times some trouble socializing.

Ironically, it was in this protective environment that my kid got in his first throw down fight with another kid, a 5-year-old who had trouble sharing and playing nice.

This 5-year-old had started to push kids out of the way, grabbing any and every toy when he felt like it. This went on for about an hour or two. He pushed a few kids out of the proverbial sandbox a couple of times, each getting into a mild but manageable altercation with Fiver. After another push, Fiver grabbed my kid by the shoulder and threw him back causing my kid to fall back on his butt in the grass.

Before I got a chance to put my beer down in enough time to run over, Bailiño got fed up and whacked Fiver in the back of the legs Ron Hextall-style, before they both hit the ground and started slapping each other.

It's OK to be mortified, Dad.

As I broke up the fight, which seemed like a brawl, with another couple of parents, my kid was both upset and fired up. The crowd of beer-guzzling, brat-eating parents and guests looked concerned and stunned. Nobody got hurt, thankfully, and we made them both apologize and shake on it.

I’m not sure where my kid got his street smarts. Surely, I never taught him how to hit like that or to retaliate against a bully like an unruly NHL goaltender.

Not pleased about the fighting, I was content that my kid at least stuck up for himself, which is more than I would have done at that age. I felt an odd mishmash of feelings ranging from the likes of “My baby!!!” to “Did you get him good?” or “Sweep the leg, Johnny!”

As a kid, I remember a fellow Philadelphia Flyers fan, one of my friend’s dads, call Ron Hextall a thug. Hextall was best known not only for being an excellent goaltender and a standout in two Stanley Cup campaigns, but also for being the guy who would step in when a player from another team got out of line or roughed up the team mates.

Of Hextall, my friend’s dad said “He’s a thug, but he’s our thug.” He couldn’t have been more right about anything.

Now, before you jump to any conclusions, let it be known I’m not raising my kid to be a thug (just a Broad Street Bully, maybe). And if he ever pulled some of the stunts that Hextall pulled on the ice, at least under my roof, my kid would be grounded for a month.

But, there is definitely something important about sticking up for yourself as you realize that sometimes the scuffle is part of Life. Perhaps this is nothing more than one of the standard rituals in a growing boy’s existence, like it or not.

It all reminds me of an advertisement that I saw a few summers ago.

Adidas ran an ad bearing the brand new jersey for Newcastle United, a big and then-successful soccer club known for their large army of fans. Adidas ran the ad worldwide all summer in 2003, trying to compete against Nike, who had just bagged the Manchester United shirt deal for $100 Million-plus.

The Adidas ad read “Some Day We’ll All Dress Like Our Fathers”. At first, I wasn’t sure right away what the marketing wonks were getting at. I already owned the shirt, so they might have had me there.

I had seen ads of a similar note for Canadian Club, stating “Damn Right, Your Dad Drank It.” Yet, the 1970s guys in the ad dressed like Kojak and Baretta didn’t make me want to drink their whiskey.

After all, who said I wanted to drink or dress like my dad?

But after a second read, I figured that the message was that we, as sports enthusiasts, spectators and players, all take inspiration from our elders such as our fathers, coaches and other figures in our lives.

Those marketing wonks were half right. But much of the time, it’s the other way around.

Frye writes weekly about sports and life. Updates can be found here at MySports/Complex and on his Facebook page of the same name.

Talking Trash Part 1 - Rocker, Ole Miss and the Big Orange

About a decade ago, the Atlanta Braves’ hot new relief pitcher John Rocker kicked off his new career and his first big crack at major sports media coverage in an interesting way. He put his foot in his mouth so hard it came out the back of his head and hit a few people in the process.

I’m not going to cough up quotes. But anyone who remembers what he said in his first big interview with Sports Illustrated magazine might recall the bad press around his words, which were an unintelligible, judgmental assembly of uninformed jibes about New York City and New Yorkers.

Some people were offended. I wasn’t but I did think Rocker was an idiot, for at least no other reason than bungling his first chance to speak publicly to national sports media and more importantly the fans. Instead of nailing it like a professional, he wrecked it by sounding like a hooded cretin.

I doubt that Rocker meant to use his interview with SI as an opportunity to showcase personal prejudices, which may or may not have been that deep anyhow. Tongue tied and his brain shutting off, I think Rocker just got caught up in the moment, fumbling his true intention, which was nothing more than to talk a little trash about his team’s rivals, the New York Mets.

Rocker loved pitching for the Braves, and loved Atlanta. He was a local boy who loved his clan so much so that he took it upon himself, alone, to carry the burden of denigrating Atlanta’s arch rivals, their fans, and the city they play and live in, leveraging every offensive stone he could throw.

Ultimately, Rocker’s intent was noble, but his delivery was poor. Noble, if you think talking trash about a rival sports team is a fair enterprise. I must admit that trash talk is one thing that I and John Rocker share. And the fact is that we share it with the rest of the world.

I’ve talked trash about rival sports teams ever since I was a kid. If you are committed sports fan in any form, you have talked trash too.

Clearly, sports trash talk is more of an art than a science, and a lot of it is tied in with good old fashioned sectional conflict, in the Civil War sense.

The Braves/Mets rivalry was a good example of this, as two clubs with riled up fans (who were not local rivals per se) competed in the same league for the same prize: a crack at the World Series.

But local rivalries --or the “derby”, as the local match up is called in some parts of the world-- cook up the best trash talk and some of the best names used to denigrate the other side, all in good fun of course. Among some of the really good ones:

Massholes, used to describe the Boston Red Sox fans, and New England Patriots fans, who are chiefly one in the same, by New Yorkers primarily.

Cheeseheads, used to describe Green Bay Packers fans, by Chicagoans. Wisconsin has a lot of cheese, you know.

But back to the derby…

The first time I ever experienced local derby trash talk en masse was at age 18 attending my first high stakes college football game. It was a Southeastern Conference match up, when Mississippi (or “Ole Miss”) played Tennessee at the Liberty Bowl in Memphis. This game, technically a home game for Tennessee, was a big deal since the winner would clinch the division and play in the Sugar Bowl.

The game was moved to Memphis, which is closer to Ole Miss, in order to accommodate a much bigger crowd and a live national broadcast by CBS on a Saturday night. Anticipating a long shot Sugar Bowl trip, Ole Miss fans brought sugar cubes and blasted from their tail gate vehicles “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard.

The sugar cubes found their alternate purpose as fans flicked them onto the sidelines and pelted the mobile CBS camera men.

Other Ole Miss supporters, dressed up in their coat and tie combos, had brought orange slices to toy with. I remember seeing a Tennessee player going out for a warm up pass, and taking an orange slice right in the face mask.

The symbolism of the oranges was tied to the old pejorative tagline Ole Miss fans made up about Tennessee that “Nothing sucks like a Big Orange.”

But the Big Orange was everywhere. That is, tens of thousands of Tennesseans, dressed in blinding traffic-sign orange sweatshirts, were there filling two thirds of the stadium, howling as you’d think people from the Smokey Mountains would do.

After Ole Miss blew the game, thanks to their punter’s hesitation and a blocked kick that was returned for a touchdown, I left the Liberty Bowl with my dad, a quiet guy who had never been to a Southern college football game before. I think he felt threatened just a bit.

Heading toward the parking lot, we were accosted by loud and taunting, yet non-violent Big Orange folks chanting “Go to Hell Ole Miss, Go to Hell!”

Tennessee was the favorite in that game, and they won it as everyone had expected them to. But the Big Orange must have been miffed simply by the thought that some other college team might take a shot at their crown in the SEC.

For that reason alone, talking trash seemed the only appropriate remedy.

Since I can’t make it back for the Ole Miss/Big Orange game this weekend, I’ll have to settle. Instead it will be a Thanksgiving visit home, with a chance to cheer my old high school football team in the big game against the cross town scum.

Sorry about that. As an adult, I’ll have to try to behave myself during my trip, but sports trash talk runs deep and old habits die hard. Forgive me.

Baseball, Democracy's Game.

It’s no wonder that Baseball is America’s national past time. If you believe that America is truly the land of opportunity then the game of Baseball explains a lot about who we are as Americans and what we value.

Come to think of it, Baseball also should be the “national past time” of Canada, all of Western Europe, France especially, and all of the countries that make up the entire free world.

The fact is that there are some interesting things about baseball that you probably never noticed that correspond to our needs as free people, our way of life and to everything we aspire.

When you consider how it is played, Baseball seems to have been designed precisely by our Founding Fathers, or at least by seasoned politicians with good intentions.

In case you don’t believe me, here’s what I’m talking about.

All are created equal
Baseball requires you to be neither tall nor fast, nor muscular, nor supremely fit. If you hit well, throw well, or have other skills, who cares whether you are a “natural athlete”? There is running involved, but only so much.

Baseball is a pretty diverse game, with players from everywhere of various skill sets. Many of the best come from poor, politically unstable countries. I have seen guys at the amateur level who don’t look the least bit athletic hit the ball out of the park against the most fit pitcher. And we’ve all seen women who are better than most men on the field.

At the pro level, chunky guys from David Wells to Carlos Zambrano have successfully played at the top level, not to mention players with a terrible sense of style like the mullet clad Randy Johnson. Babe Ruth wasn’t very fit or pretty either.

Pedigree might work for thoroughbreds, but it doesn’t hold a dime’s value in Baseball.

Everyone gets their turn.
What other team sport gives everyone a chance to hit the ball. If you are playing Basketball or Soccer, you’d better be fortunate enough to have someone pass the ball to you. Screw up once and you reduce your chances of that in the future. But in Baseball, you get your share of quality time with the ball. Every one gets an at-bat.

To sweeten the deal, everyone gets several chances. Like cats, you have nine lives if you’re swinging a bat in a baseball game, with nine innings to play for. You may not get to bat in all nine, but you’ll get a few chances at least. If you can’t hit the ball in nine innings, then I guess you weren’t cut out for this. At least not today, pal.

Ground level entry.
In America, families tend to get their little ones involved in the socializing activity of “team sports” with Baseball as the first proving ground. Little kids play the version know as Tee Ball, which doesn’t involve the complications of hitting a moving ball, just one sitting on a tee when you are ready. We adults, with our bad knees and spare tires play “Slow Pitch Softball” or “Baseball for Crusty Old People”.

With increasing comfort, you can ease into a life long pursuit in this past time if you so choose. No matter what level of skill you acquire, if any, you can still enjoy the game for fun.

Other sports aren’t so kind to the beginner or amateur. With Hockey, you need to learn to skate first.

In Boxing you need to be tough from day one…tough enough to get punched in the face repeatedly. I’m not up for that, and I don’t think you are either. Besides there’s no Slow Pitch version of Boxing.

Everyone has their own free space.
Most sports have positions, which are generally nothing more than titles, like in the business world.

In Basketball, positions have certain functions that are predicated mostly on size, shape and speed. Your center is the big guy, and your point guard is your short, fast guy. The others fall in between, but if you are lucky to have Michael Jordan on your team, then you have a shooting guard.

In Rugby, positions are an absolute joke. Same with Golf.

But in Baseball you get not just title but your get your own territory. Outfielders get the most territory, which they need for fielding hit balls from an opposing batter. Sort of like goal keepers in Hockey, Soccer or Lacrosse except that there are three of them doing this job.

Pitchers get a pedestal to go with theirs. So do catchers except that they must share a little of their real estate with the umpire. Infielders get their own smaller space too, but get to guard the bases, which is a pivotal locum of power in the game.

What this points to, is that we claim our territory not only when it comes to our home, the car we drive (and where we park it), but where we stand, run and play in recreational games. And we love this part of it.

Free speech
In Baseball, you talk it up all you want. Usually you talk dirt about the batter to distract him. Try that in Basketball, you’ll get a technical foul and give points to the other team. In Soccer, what the world calls Football, you will get either a red card or get head butted in the chest (see World Cup ’06).

To get thrown out in Baseball requires the extreme. You have to spit and kick dirt at the umpire.

What else?
Back to France (yes, I was serious about this). The French actually invented the liberté, fraternité, egalité that our US Constitution was founded upon. Sorry to say, we stole it from the French.

But give the French a chance. So they have an attitude problem and hate everything that Americans like. I bet they’ve got a pretty good swinging arm thanks to those baguette thingies they’re always carrying around.

But for now, the French national past time will continue to be wearing a beret while smoking.

India, a former pseudo-socialist country that doesn’t know Baseball is crazy about Cricket. Cricket is a sort of tedious, bureaucratic, longer version of Baseball, in which the matches go on sometimes for three days. Don’t blame the Indians for their national pastime. You can blame both colonization and the British.

The Irish play Celtic Football, which is like Rugby but with a soccer ball. Some might wonder if they know the difference between one ball and another, or care.

And Pakistan’s national past time is field hockey. Pakistan’s team is so good at it that they have won the Olympic Gold. Don’t tell them that this is a women’s sport.

Thus, since you can’t force democracy on the world, other countries will have their own national past time. But we can try.

In life, we often strive for more to “get ahead”. We may move to gather up more room for our nest. We might build a McMansion with a big yard. Then we extend the nest with swimming pools and big outdoor toys.

But when you come right down to it, all we need is a chance to play and maybe just a little bit of personal space. People everywhere, not just in America, basically want the same things. And for that, Baseball is one game that gives you all you need.

Enjoy the Series, Go Phils.
Frye

Frye’s blog and other musings are up at MySportsComplex.Blogspot.com and Facebook. Watch out for swinging baguettes.

Why I Like Becks.

(reprint from Sep 20, 2009)

I don't follow the MLS, but it was easy to notice if you watch the news, the way LA Galaxy fans reacted to David Beckham, their only world class player, against AC Milan this weekend.

They jeered him, taunted him, flipped the bird, and all that could be expected. Perhaps it is remarkable that Galaxy fans --like their fair weather sports cousins, Lakers Fans, Dodgers Fans, Dallas Cowboys fans for that matter-- actually made an appearance. They tend to be better than other sorts fans in LA, an entertainment town.

Could be Lindsey Lohan and Jack Nicholson, each an easy celebrity sighting, were in the front row. Nonetheless, the fans got their rocks off, and the squad gave their usual flacid 90 minutes on the pitch, against a bunch of 40 year old Italian grandfathers.

The gripe, according to the fans, seems to be that Becks was disloyal by taking time off in the MLS post-season by playing in Italy.

And that's it. Instead of sitting on his butt, Becks played. And he played for a top team, in the top flight of what may be the best league in the world. In actuality, Becks got fit, kept his skills sharp, scored a few, and came back more prepared than any of his teammates could even hope for. Not bad, considering most of LA were by the pool, or spent the spring of '09 auditioning for a spot in a bad Lifetime TV mini-series.

So, enough about the weekend. And enough about LA sports fans, with all of their wanton celebrity-sighting obsessions, and their fake boobs, colagen injections, smog and bad traffic. But, I'd like to say a few things about David Beckham that most of the country and the world football establishment probably don't want to hear. Or things that, obscurred by media and celebrity, have even not been considered.

Whether you hate his celebrity, or his ten year association with Manchester United, or his wife and her association with the Spice Girls, or his hair styles, or that fact that there are better athletes in the world who are less famous than him; or whatever you can muster about Becks, there's one fact that stands on its own. That is, that time after time David Beckham has delivered. For England, for club, for the English Football Association or for the MLS.

Need an example? October 2001, England play home to Greece in a World Cup qualifier. Yet much of the England squad, having boozed it up the night before, can't pass the ball, can't kick, can't do squat. Nigel Martyn's goalie mitts are made of marshmallow, Owen and Heskey can't get a foot on the ball. Scholes is having a bad game, and even Gerrard looks hung over. All they have to do, since Germany meanwhile can't beat Finland, is NOT LOSE and they've got their place in World Cup 2002

Down 2 -1 against a slow albeit spirited Greece, Becks takes a free kick putting it net-side 3 minutes into extra time. England advance, sparing the team and country the embarassing thought of having to fight Ireland for a World Cup spot.

Another example... May 1999, Man United are down 1-0 against Bayern, the Kings of Europe. With both central midfielders and their captain suspended, Becks takes on the central role. With 3 minutes left he serves up two corner kicks, resulting in two goals last-minute to win the coveted European Cup for Man United, their first Euro Cup in 30 years.

Then there's business: He's a one man marketing machine. Becks has brought more to America's Major League Soccer, in terms of interest and sponsorship dollars, than they ever could without him. That's important considering he was on one of the MLS's worst teams last year. He did the same for England, Man United and Real Madrid selling more jerseys than all other players combined.

That aside, Beckham's style of play is team-oriented. His passing is spot on. And just when you find yourself complaining about how much he's getting paid, his high level of visibility, etc, there he goes scoring again. And usually on a free kick, in a goal down situation. Yet, football pundits, English and otherwise, take their shots at Becks for one reason only: that they are bothered by his fame.

On Fox Football Fone-in, Steven Cohen moans week after week, about how Becks is "ruining football" while moaning further about Becks not appearing on their show (with its 10 x 4 foot studio). Chances are, if Beckham was scoring for Cohen's beloved Chelsea, he might spare us all and stop his moaning in general.

Meanwhile, Alexi Lalas, the uninformed commentator, failed manager, former US player and one-time grunge band musician habitualy bags on Beckham, while praising many third rate US players as 'brilliant". Note to Lalas: the US has never had a world class male player. Never.

The stats stand firm on their on too: 63 goals for Man United as a midfielder...not bad, and 17 goals for England. But much of what Becks brings to the game is professionalism, quality play, and a decent amount humility for a man who is bigger than Oprah and Madonna in most parts of the world.

One thought might put it in perspective. In the late 1980's, a lot of folks complained about Andre Agassi's fame, and when he started winning Grand Slams they shut up. Beckham, short of that timely luxury, has been good from the start.

So, I implore you football fans...or soccer fans as my fellow Yanks might call themselves: Pop open a quality beer, and enjoy the kicks while Beckham is still playing, and before he's retired soon. Even if it is once every four years, circa World Cup. At age 34, it's fair to say that you won't -for much longer-- have Becks to kick around anymore.

Yours in Joga Bonito,
Andy Frye